Sherlock's Secret
by cottonrag
Summary: When John returns home to find Sherlock shot, the detective makes some interesteing confessions. A little bit slashy.
1. Chapter 1

John walked into the apartment after a long day at the surgery only to hear several gunshots ring out.

_It's probably Sherlock. Nothing to worry about. Now I just need a nice cup of tea and-_

"SHERLOCK! Are you alright?"

Sherlock was standing calmly, clutching his arm, blood running down in a thick stream.

"Sherlock! What happened?"

"I know you're an idiot but really, I thought I had taught you something! Obviously, I got shot."

"Yes Sherlock" an exasperated John sighed, obviously it couldn't be too bad, Sherlock was behaving like his normal self, "I can see that. But how did it happen?"

"Well, a bullet from a gun seems to have lodged itself into my arm- really John, it's plainly visible!"

"Yes Sherlock, I know, but how? What were you- Sherlock!"

The man had opened his mouth to reply but his eyes had rolled to the back of his head and fallen to the ground with a loud thud. John rushed over. He knew how it felt to be shot and it wasn't pleasant. His training as a doctor had also taught him what someone looked like when they desperately needed to be taken to hospital- and Sherlock was demonstrating this now.

"Shit, Sherlock! Shit! Why do you do such stupid things!" John hurried to grab his phone from his shirt pocket, hands fumbling a little as he undid the button. He called an ambulance- they would be here in ten minutes.

John knew Sherlock couldn't stay unconscious for that long. His extensive medical training and expertise as a surgeon had shown John just what he needed to do in these circumstances. He crouched down next to Sherlock and ripped a thin strip of fabric from the bottom of Sherlock's shirt briefly thinking how Sherlock would berate him after for doing it. _Serves him right, _thought John. _This is his fault afterall. _and tied it tightly around the man's arm, just above where he was shot.

There was a deep hole in Sherlock's thin bicep but thankfully the bullet hadn't gone in with enough force to pierce the other side. After some time this wound would heal and all that would be left is a scar.

_The bullet's lodged in there. This is going to be painful for him. Well at least now he knows what will happen if he goes around shooting the wall!_

John knew that he needed to revitalize Sherlock, just in case his body shut down. He rolled the man onto his side, into the recovery position and started to slap the man between the shoulder blades. After a few minutes John knew more than to continue and decided to wait for the ambulance, when the proper equipment came. He tried just a few more slaps and was rewarded with a weak

"ow. John, I'm awake"

_Thank goodness! _John thought, but slapped Sherlock a few more times as revenge for worrying him.

"Oh Sherlock! You're alright- well more or less, now you have to stay with me ok?"

"John I will always stay with you."

"Ok that's the spirit! Now keep those eyes open, look at me, talk to me! What's your name?

"Sherlock Holmes"

"Where do you live?"

"221B Baker street"

"right well you don't have any memory loss, so it looks like you just lost a lot of blood. The ambulance is on its way" John tried a weak smile, he was relieved that Sherlock was alright but still angry that he had shot himself in the first place.

"I don't want the ambulance."

"No? Well I do. I'm sorry Sherlock but you shot yourself and now you have to live with going to the hospital." The hospital was like prison to Sherlock, and John knew that. All the monitoring, all of the rules Sherlock had to obey, the procedures he had to follow. He wasn't allowed the independence he treasured so much.

"But I don't want the ambulance."

"Sherlock, you have no say in the matter. I've called the ambulance, you shot yourself and fainted for goodness sake! You need blood back in you! Now I can't give you blood, I'm afraid unless there is a secret supply here that you haven't told me about" _that was probably a stupid thing to ask _John thought _there probably is._

"well…" started Sherlock, but John cut him off,

"No Sherlock. Just no! You are not getting out of this one! You are going to the hospital and that's final!"

"But John"

"No!" There were no exceptions, Sherlock was going whether he liked it or not.

"the thing is John, that… I don't want another doctor"

"For goodness sake Sherlock just shut- what did you say?" John wasn't sure he had heard right.

"I said" the taller man started, then blushed crimson against his raven hair "I only want my doctor. I want you, John and you alone."

Now John blushed, surely Sherlock didn't mean what John thought he meant. He couldn't, he was asexual for goodness sake! John refused to let himself imagine what this might mean. The tall man, genius and striking in appearance, with the deep, intelligent grey eyes and full lips had just said he had _wanted_ John. _It was probably an experiment _John thought, not understanding fully why he kept rationalizing Sherlock's answer, trying to make it seem like something other than the shy declaration. _He probably wanted to find out…_well what did he want to find out? _He probably wanted to find out the physiological attachment of the savior to the savee….That's it,_ John decided, _an experiment, nothing more. _

_So why do I feel happy? _

John licked his lips, feeling a sweat break out over him under Sherlock's all seeing gaze.

"Sherlock… if this is another experiment I'll…"

"This is not an experiment, John. Never an experiment."

_Right, so it wasn't an experiment now? He is a sociopath anyway, socipaths can't feel anything and they're VERY GOOD at lying_ John reminded himself, _Sherlock was lying._

"Look at me John. Really look." Sherlock moved his gaze up to John's face, noting that the man had still not looked at him. "Do you honestly think I am lying?"

Now John did look, alerted by purr of Sherlock's voice. A suspicious purr, too smooth.

"Sherlock I honestly don't know. Ok? And what makes you think that I like you like… _that_ anyway? I date _girls, _Sherlock, _women, females… _and I know you don't understand that, but it's just the way I am." What John was starting to realize was that perhaps it _wasn't_ who he was. That when Sherlock had said those words, that he wanted John, something had happened inside John, something inexplicable. He had started to wonder if perhaps, just in this one case, not dating girls would be ok.

"I see." Sherlock said bluntly. "fine, take me to the hospital and you can pretend I didn't say any of this" He sighed… John would possibly never understand him.

"No, Sherlock… wait. I didn't, I mean, I haven't-"

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered the room, took one look at Sherlock, and screamed. The ambulance woman beside her, put a comforting arm around her shoulders reassuring her that "these things" happened all the time.

"John! Thank goodness you came home!" Mrs. Hudson wailed as John walked over to her, to take over comforting from the ambulance woman.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, yes. Now look, Sherlock will be fine. He's only shot his arm and he will be better in a matter of weeks!"

"Oh dear" sobbed Mrs. Hudson "Oh, poor Sherlock!"

"It's ok Mrs. Hudson, I promise." John comforted the woman.


	2. Chapter 2

John waited at home while Sherlock was being tended to at the hospital. After Sherlock had been carted off by the ambulance and John's adrenaline spike had worn off, he had realized how bad the results might have been if Sherlock had been shot just slightly to the left of his arm. _Breathe _he told himself, _he's ok now._ He knew he needed to sit down, lie down even- calm down.

To John, a man in the know, shooting was not a pleasant thing. He had tended to far too many patients in Afghanistan who had been shot and he had even lost some whose cases were too dire. And Sherlock's shot wound had reminded him of all the people who had been hurt and injured and who had died, often due to one bullet shot into the right (or wrong) place. Sherlock didn't understand quite how lucky he was. But John did. And John's train wreck of a body right now was proving that.

With his legs shaking and mind racing, John stumbled into his room and fell onto his bed, dragging every ounce of self-control with him. He felt angry and his leg throbbed- the first time since meeting Sherlock. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling and wondering why this event had made such an impact on him, why he now felt so tired and so angry and so _upset_. Why did a hole in Sherlock's arm make any difference to John?

_Well, for starters I'll have to clean up the mess he's made_ John thought darkly and was suddenly consumed by a blazing feeling inside of his chest. WHY did Sherlock have a right to do this? Why? Why did Sherlock think he could just do anything and John would clean it up for him? Why did he think that he could go around _shooting _things for goodness' sake and expect everything to be fine? Why did Sherlock think that just because he didn't care about others, others didn't care about him.

And yet, here John was, caring about him. Caring more about him than he'd ever thought he could- John Watson, the respectable, Dr. John Watson, caring about a rude and blunt sociopath who apparently liked to shoot things.

But this sociopath had a name, Sherlock Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes. This man also had a face, and a body and everything that any other man had and while he may not seem human a lot of the time, the shot wound had showed John that, truly he was.

And the respectable Dr. John Watson wanted to be human with him.

_No, stop it! _John told himself _you've got Sarah. She's fit AND a woman._ but for some reason, this thought made John uneasy, unsatisfied as it had never made him feel before. _You're not Harry_ John reminded himself sternly while another part of his brain said _Sherlock's not Clara_.

John sighed, irritated at the fact that himself was betraying himself and not understanding entirely what that meant. He tried to rid himself of the thought but his brain continued, in a kind of mantra _Sherlock's not Clara, Sherlock's not Clara, Sherlock's not Clara. _On and on this phrase was repeated until John had had enough.

"Shut up!", irritated, he spoke to himself just as Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

Brow slightly furrowed she asked, "John, dear, are you alright? How does a cup of tea sound? just this once?"

John saw an escape from his inner turmoil and replied "yes Mrs. Hudson. Tea would be lovely"

"Now why don't you come down to my apartment and you can tell me what's wrong."

Mrs. Hudson lifted an eyebrow at John over her steaming mug of tea never lifting her motherly gaze from his eyes. Her concern was apparent not just in her gaze but also in the way she stood, feet pointed towards John, one arm out like it wanted to wrap around his shoulders and comfort him and hold him together, in one piece. John wasn't sure if I wanted to talk about "what was wrong" but if he was going to rid it from his mind he needed to say it aloud and Mrs. Hudson was the perfect person to give advice.

"Yes Mrs .Hudson I'll be right down"

The tea was lovely, _a nice change from me having to make it _thought John bitterly, then regretted it- Sherlock was in hospital after all.

"Now, dear, you don't seem so well" Mrs. Hudson queried as they sat at her small kitchen table "why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

John wasn't sure where to start, really, there were a lot of things wrong his sister, his leg, the fact he still sometimes had suicidal thoughts but somehow, he thought this was not what Mrs. Hudson was asking.

"I'm angry, Mrs. Hudson"

"Do call me Jane, dear, we're all equals at this table."

"ok well Mrs.- I mean Jane to be honest I'm very angry."

"With Sherlock?"

"Yes. With Sherlock. He just doesn't seem to care about anyone. Not even himself! He managed to shoot himself in the arm and for some reason he expects everyone to ignore his pain and suffering, ignore him and continue in their usual lives. And it's not just now, he has never cared. He has always done what pleases him. Never sleeping, playing his violin at all hours of night, shooting the wall, going into crime scenes and not wearing protective wear, stating facts when they need not be said, abusing poor Molly" John gasped for breath as he continued his tirade

" the fact that he bloody well _shot_ himself and expects everyone just to go about their normal lives, treating him as God and moving aside so that he can do whatever he wants shows it! He just doesn't care. He thinks he can leave me here alone while he's in pain, that he can leave me here to clean up the mess, that he can leave me here, just, just-"

A sharp gasp escaped John's lips.

Emotion welling up inside him, John fought to control it but couldn't and the one loneseome tear that trickled down his face brought many more in its wake. Soon John was weeping, his small body shuddering, sobs flowing freely from his mouth. John tried to control himself in front of Mrs. Hudson who patted his hand and smiled an ironic smile, face showing a knowledge that had been concealed for a long time.

"Well dear, now, now, you're alright"

"I'm very sorry Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what's got into me!" John cried, stifling a little the next round of sobs.

"It's most certainly ok John Watson. You can cry all you wish."

"Thanks Mrs.- Jane"

"You're welcome" she smiled

"Now tell me, why do you think you're crying, John?"

"I don't know Mrs. Hudson"

"I think you do, dear. I'm no Sherlock Holmes but I can see clear as day what is happening to you"

"And what is that m'am?" John asked politely, not trusting Mrs. Hudson's overly smooth and soothing tone of voice.

"You care for him. You care for Sherlock." Seeing John's skeptical expression Mrs. Hudson- Jane, continued

"Well, it is plain as day to see that you do… crying because he shot himself, and leaving you alone to worry and care for him. I know how that feels John, I've lived a life. I also know how it feels to be in denial."

"Mrs. Hudson I'm not in denial! I mean, I know I care for him. Of course I care for him, he's my best friend, one of the only people I've ever trusted- of course I care for him."

"Yes, dear, but there seems to be more"

"are you suggesting that I…"

"Love Sherlock?"

"you're suggesting I'm in love with Sherlock" John pulled his head back and raised his eyebrows, "not likely"

But now that it had been brought up by Mrs. Hudson, the less John felt like it wasn't true. It was true he was straight, yes. It was true that he dated women, yes. It was true that Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson knew this, yes. But it was also true that he loved Sherlock Holmes, more than he'd ever loved a woman- and he had loved many women. That he wanted Sherlock more than any woman- and by God he had wanted women. Maybe, just maybe, loving Sherlock didn't mean he wasn't straight. Maybe it had nothing to do with being straight or being gay. Maybe it just had something to with his otherworldliness, his black hair and full, red lips contrasting against his porcelain skin and cold grey eyes and his intellect. It was Sherlock afterall and Sherlock was _definitely_ not a normal man. John hadn't fallen in love with women. He hadn't fallen in love with men.

He'd fallen in love with Sherlock.

"I can see by the look on your face now, that it's true" Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly.

"And if it is?"

"Go to the hospital right now and tell him."

John thanked Mrs. Hudson- Jane and began to walk back to his apartment but was stopped at the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat by a final call out,

"It's written all over his face as well, John. You are a lucky man, Sherlock doesn't often become attached. And you would be good for him." She smiled again and flapped her hands in a gesture which made John hurry up the stairs and back into his apartment to clean himself up.

As he walked in he noticed the skull sitting on the mantleplace.

_I'd better take that for him. It might scare the staff but at least he won't be bothering them as much._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: thankyou to all who took the time to review my work! I appreciate all the kind words and dedicate this next chapter to you all! Thankyou to Psychedelica, Silverspeare and Prothoe for your lovely reviews!**

**Also, if anyone has any prompts, I would love to write for you!**

**warnings: **I do not own any of these characters and am not affiliated with the BBC in any way

Enjoy

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><p>That night at the hospital Sherlock sat up in bed, there was a faint knock at the door.<p>

"Sherlock? It's me, John"

"hmph" Sherlock buried his face in the pillow.

"Can I come in?"

"Fine. I'm bored"

Sherlock heard a chuckle outside his door.

John walked in holding the skull

"I brought you this, I thought you might want it" John smiled a closed lip smile.

Neither man spoke for a while but when the silence became unbearable John began to speak

"Sherlock- I" at the same time Sherlock began

"John- I"

"You first" Sherlock amended.

"ok" John took a deep breath, trying to think of what he was going to say

"I've known you for two years now, Sherlock. And in that time I've never-"

"I know" Sherlock interrupted "you've never seen me show any kind of human emotion for anyone before, yes I know- boring"

"Sherlock please, try to keep this civil and let me finish. What I was _going_to say was that I've never met anyone whom I have been closer friends with, not in the last two years, not in the army, not ever" He reached out a hand to stroke Sherlock's thick black curls, letting his palm rest on Sherlock's face- Sherlock's head tilting slightly to feel the touch of the other man.

"I don't have friends, John" Sherlock said, "never have. The closest thing I've had to friends are archenemies. Having friends is silly, showing emotion- a weakness. I met you, and you weren't as beautiful as me. Not as intelligent as me. Not as-" John retracted his hand suddenly, stung by the taller and "more beautiful" man's words. _I can't believe I thought he meant it._

Sherlock watched John's face fall and felt for the man.

_Maybe that was a bit not good_ Sherlock thought _but if he'd let me finish. _Maybe Sherlock would even tell John that the reason he shot himself was so that John would give him some attention.

"Fine Sherlock. I get it. You made a mistake. Enjoy your skull" John strode purposefully out of the door and into the long hospital corridor behind him.

"No, wait John! Let me finish!" Sherlock shouted after the older man, but John was too far gone to hear his cry and unlikely to have returned even if he had heard Sherlock's protestation.

The truth was that Sherlock could play word games and change his speech to make himself sound more intelligent, more self- assured, but one thing he couldn't do was enunciate his feelings. It was true, in part, what he'd said to John- he _did _think that having emotions, having feelings, relying on other people was not only a weakness but a dangerous weakness. But it was the one weakness that Sherlock was willing to accept- in the case of John only, of course.

Funny to think that love, the most powerful and deadly emotion would be the one Sherlock was willing to have.

Sherlock pictured John now. Walking furiously down the hospital corridor limping, one leg more able to support his weight than the other, probably a comical picture, but Sherlock didn't laugh. He didn't feel like it. He was bored.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had made an accurate estimation (as usual) of what John looked like but what Sherlock hadn't bargained for was the slow crumpling of John's face as he realized just what Sherlock had said, the tugging feeling at the back of John's throat, the guttural wail which escaped his lips. Replaying in his mind everything that Sherlock had said, John started sobbing harder and harder every word just reinforcing that it was stupid to fall in love with a sociopath. <em>Stupid<em>,_ utterly stupid John Watson! And this is why you have trust issues._ He told himself.

People stared at him in sympathy as he limped down the corridor, face beet red, sobbing with unrelenting mortification and pain. They stopped to stare at the man whose wife had died, whose grandfather had been taken off life support, whose baby didn't quite make it. A man whose love was lost. Sherlock didn't "want him", it was an experiment. Only an experiment. Well, damn Sherlock. For a second, John tried to blame Mrs. Hudson for encouraging him, but couldn't quite manage it. It was his decision, he had run into this decision without thinking through anything and ignoring his better sense.

It was all John could do to control himself when he exited the hospital, no taxi driver would accept him like this. And he hailed a cab. The cab pulled over and John got in

"221 B Baker Street".

Sniffing and rubbing his eyes as he walked up the stairs and thinking that this was the most he had cried in years John hoped that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't see his sorry state. Every step was a difficult one. Ascending the numerous stairs into his apartment was a nearly impossible task. _I'm going to bed. That's all I want. Maybe if I go to sleep I will wake up and know this was a dream._ John thought, but he knew it wasn't true. Although he did want to sleep. A lot. So naturally it was a rather unpleasant surprise for him when he walked into the living room of 221B Baker Street only to find Mycroft standing primly in the centre of the room, humming "God save the Queen" under his breath.

Ironic, really.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, what a pleasant surprise!" the tall, portly, man clapped his hands together gleefully and smiled an infuriatingly polite smile.

"Oh no, the surprise is all yours" John retaliated, not in the mood to talk to the brother of the man whom he loved and who had just spurned him.

"Right well. I see you're not in the best of spirits"

"You could say that"

"Had a little tiff with my brother?" Mycroft smiled at his own joke

John didn't.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?"

"I was merely wondering how my brother was coming along at the hospital. Would you care to enlighten me?"

"Not particularly"

"Ah! So you HAVE had a tiff! Hardly suprising, really, nobody can be close, or far, from Sherlock without running into some obstruction." Mycroft looked annoyingly gleeful at this prospect

"I'm really not in the mood Mycroft"

"Fine. Well if anything happens do give me a call."

"We'll see" and with that, John shuffled up the remainder of the stairs to his bedroom and fell asleep, only to dream of Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **here is the next chapter in what promises to be quite a long story.

I was going to break it into two chapter because it is so long, but I decided not to. I think it flows better this way!

Also again, thankyou to Motimo who left a lovely review :)

**Warning: **Slash at the end (nothing exceptionally graphic though)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of these characters and am not affiliated with the BBC in any way.

enjoy!

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><p>Sherlock was bored. Always bored. The presence of his skull was a small consolation but even Sherlock had more sense to talk to a skull when there were people around, and given this was a hospital- that was always.<p>

Now was the first time Sherlock could ever recall _wanting _to sleep. Alongside alleviating his boredom, it would purge his brain of the memory of John's face as he said those words today. Complete dismay, disbelief, but the worst, and Sherlock knew it was the worst, was betrayal.

Sherlock may have been a sociopath, but he was loyal and today he had just betrayed the one person in his life whom he _actually_ cared about.

_John_

Dr. John Watson was amazing. One of the people who could distract him from his boredom, John Watson was a savior. But this wasn't specifically why Sherlock liked him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it (annoyingly as he could deduce everything else in the world). John was _different_. There was something about him that was just so _lovable_.

_That damned man._

Sherlock had never seen himself having this particular type of _affinity_ for someone else. It would make him too weak, too vulnerable to his enemies- and he had plenty of those.

He didn't need John, no. John was a weakness, something that needed to be stopped before it had even begun. He was better than John anyway, more intelligent, faster and didn't need John by his side to function. Sherlock didn't need to live with John, didn't need to see his brows crinkle when he was angry at Sherlock for playing the violin in the wee small hours. He didn't need his tea and he did not need to be reminded to eat. He didn't need to see John's smile every morning or the way that he sighed whenever he sat down to read the paper. He didn't need to hear that his behaviour was inappropriate. He didn't need to feel John's touch to wake him when he had fallen asleep on the couch or when he wanted Sherlock to budge over on his chair. He didn't need John's blogs about their adventures together. He didn't need-

_Oh God. I love him._

* * *

><p>John was woken at three in the morning by his phone.<p>

_Beep_ _beep beep_

He dragged his palms across his eyes. _Too early._

Heaving himself onto his side he massaged his temples. _A message? This early in the morning?_ _Who in their right mind would send a message at three o clock?_

Sighing, he lifted his heavy arm from its comfortable spot on the bed where it was resting

_Oh. Of course. Sherlock. _

John was happy for a moment to hear from his friend, relieved he was well until he remembered what had happened the night before.

_Oh God. Did I really say that to Sherlock? That was so stupid. Stupid! _

Then he remembered what Sherlock had said.

_Oh GOD! Why on earth would I have said any of that? STUPID!_

The phone lay innocently tempting on his bedside table. John didn't want to open the message for fear of what he would find, but his brain seemed to be disconnected from his hand. Closing his eyes his pressed "open".

_Come immediately if convenient_

_SH_

Unlikely.

Suddenly his phone beeped again

_If inconvenient come anyway_

_SH_

Oh for goodness sake! How did this man survive before he met John?

_Well I'd better go. Damn you Sherlock!_

* * *

><p>John's heart was fluttering wildly in his chest as he got a cab. He knew Sherlock wasn't in trouble- just bored most likely. How did this happen? Why had John even agreed to live with a gorgeous, sociopathic genius?<p>

When the cab pulled up at Barts he fumbled with his wallet and paid the driver, delaying going inside. But his inner commander told him "_You were in the army, John, you faced death every day. Now walk into the hospital and find Sherlock Holmes."_

His inner commander was right, of course. Sighing (he'd been doing that a lot recently) he made his way to Sherlock's room.

The masochistic side of John decided that he wouldn't give Sherlock the privilege of knocking, so he pushed open the door and strode into the room only to find Sherlock asleep in his bed.

_Oh, figures. _John thought bitterly. _I came all the way here just to find him sleeping. Well he can bloody well keep sleeping._

John turned to walk out, just as he had done yesterday, but a small, childlike voice stopped him.

"John, you came"

John wheeled around and fixed a dark stare at the injured man.

"Yes. Sherlock. I came. Happy now? Happy that you got me to do what you wanted? Now if you don't mind, I was asleep and I intend on going back home and restarting that process!" John turned again, this time determined to walk right back to where he had come from.

"please…John. Please stay."

Sherlock had said the "p" word? Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Well, this was an occasion.

_I'll stay just for a few minutes. _

When John turned back around again to face Sherlock he raised his eyebrows, momentarily surprised by the incredibly _vulnerable_ look on Sherlock's face. It was a mixture of sadness, hope, relief and pain and was that _fondness?_ He had never even known the sociopath had been able to feel this much emotion let alone contain it in one look.

"John", Sherlock started, "I'm really sorry. I'm sorry for not being a good friend and I'm sorry for being so selfish. I'm sorry for letting you down. I'm sorry for hurting you."

What? had Sherlock been on human _home makeover_ or something? What was happening to him Sherlock Holmes had apologised, not once, not even twice, but so many times John had lost count!

"Sherlock" John started, but he didn't know what he wanted to say exactly. He was still so surprised from Sherlock's apology but angry from what Sherlock had said before. Sherlock just gazed back repentantly.

"thankyou for your apology Sherlock. I know it must have been hard so I- thankyou."

Sherlock smiled brightly and tried to grab John's hand. John was tempted to let him but he remembered he was still angry and pulled it away. Sherlock's grin dropped

"John? Are you ok? I said I was sorry, for hurting you and-"

"Sherlock. Be quiet for a few moments." John sat wearily in the chair beside Sherlock's bed and rubbed his face with his hands.

"I'm still angry, Sherlock. An apology is not going to take that away. You know that right?" Sherlock nodded.

"Sherlock. You told me, when you got shot, that you _wanted _me. Now I don't know if I inferred the meaning of that correctly, or if you quite understood what that meant."

Sherlock had gone stock still, waiting on John's next sentence, his hair a little tousled from his sleep and his grey eyes confused. _He's beautiful. _Thought John. _Really beautiful. _Then continued

"because Sherlock, when people say they want someone then it usually means-"

"Yes John. I know what it means." a wry smile, "I meant what I said."

"You said it wasn't an experiment"

"It wasn't."

"Wasn't?"

"Isn't."

"Right. So would you care to explain what it is exactly, because, Sherlock, I think I'm missing something." His blood pressure started to rise again and he looked away from Sherlock, who stared unashamedly at the man, eyes narrowed, like he was trying to deduce something.

"It's not an experiment John. You know I don't experiment with psychology. Not my area."

"ok."

"I said it John, because I meant it"

"you meant it. Right. Because that explains exactly what you said last night. Y'know about emotion being a weakness and how the closest things you have to friends are archenemies-"

"you didn't let me finish!"

"You didn't try to finish!"

"You walked out before I had a chance. And I did try. I called out to you after you left but you were gone." Sherlock felt wetness on his cheek. A wetness he had never experienced before.

"Sherlock are you-"

"crying?" he sniffed "it would seem so, yes" John took a step closer to the man to comfort him, but Sherlock blushed and turned his head.

_He meant it__, he really meant it. He wasn't having me on. It wasn't an experiment!_

Content in this knowledge but still curious, John sat down again in his chair beside Sherlock's bed and looked at Sherlock until he slowly turned his head.

"What were you saying?" John crooned moving his face slightly closer to Sherlock's.

The man's reaction was palpable. If there was any doubt left in John that Sherlock was lying, it was gone now. Sherlock blushed an adorable crimson and looked at John through the lids of his eyes, long lashes drooping, a slight wetness at the ends from where he had been crying.

John had never been this close to Sherlock before- mentally or Physically and it was making him hot. He looked at Sherlock's lips, slightly parted and very shapely and realized just how much he longed to kiss them.

Sherlock looked up at the Dr. _his_ doctor and marveled in his beauty. He wore sweaters which would be unflattering on anyone but John, but somehow John managed to make them look appealing. They were gentle, soft, giving, just like John. Sherlock noticed how the skin crinkled around Johns eyes, first signs of aging and how there were slight creases just around the corners of his lips, from wearing his serious expression. He noticed how blue his eyes were and how he could get lost in them and he noticed the pinkness of his lips, begging to be touched, to be-

"Sherlock" John whispered, "what were you saying?"

Unable to look into the Doctors eyes, Sherlock matched John's passive tone, "you were right. I saw emotion as a weakness and friends as silly."

Sherlock noticed the barrier come down over John's eyes as he said these words.

"Please John, let me finish."

"Ok" John said, slowly and warily.

"But then I met you and I really got to know you. John the truth is, you are the most beautiful person I know, the most intelligent. You are _good_, truly good. You care for people, you love them, and John-" Sherlock placed one hand either side of his face, gently pulling him slightly closer

_He is an angel._John thought. This close, it was difficult to resist closing the gap between their mouths, John ached to stretch a few more inches, to close the gap but Sherlock kept his head where it was, any closer and he wouldn't be able to think straight and he needed to now, more than he ever had to.

"you taught me how to do those things. You taught me how to care but more importantly, you taught me how to love."

John gasped at those last words and Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his hand around the back of John's head and pull his face close, so that it was mere millimeters from his voluptuous lips. He held John's gaze gently, more gently than John had ever seen him look and John's lips parted slightly when he saw the flecks of desire in those gentle and desirous eyes.

John was in a daze, wondering how he had got here. Only last night he had thought he had no chance with this man. After a few seconds of wondering, he gave up- it was Sherlock Holmes after all. He saw in Sherlock's eyes all of the trust, all of the care, all of the humility and all of the _love_ Sherlock had never given in his life.

And in John's eyes, Sherlock saw pain and weariness but more, now he saw a gentle expression, a happy expression, a _loving_expression. And in this gaze Sherlock knew that he loved John. Not just for his body, although that fascinated him, but for _John_, just John. Plain and simple John had become the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and ever wanted to see.

Softly trailing his fingers down from the back of John's head to the back of John's neck Sherlock pulled John into a kiss.

He came willingly. Their lips parted almost immediately and held in the kiss was all the feelings that they had repressed and deluded for so long, not only from each other but from themselves. The kiss started off as gentle, Sherlock lightly moving his lips against John's, while John seemed to be in a shocked, unmoving state but when John had recovered himself the kiss deepened, becoming more passionate. Sherlock parted John's lips with his tongue gently, prying them apart and John touched Sherlock's tongue with his own. Curious at first then stronger and more desperate. John nibbled softly on Sherlock's lip, encouraging a soft, surprised moan from the other man. And Sherlock retaliated by breaking off the kiss and planting feathery ones along John's jaw and cheekbones and down his neck to his collarbone, trailing his fingers softly in his wake. Sherlock sucked the skin lightly then nipped at John's collar bone, receiving an almost agonized cry from the other man.

John, pulling the other man's face back up so that he could look into his eyes and tried to say sternly "Behave. We're in a hospital." But he was too happy and grinned hugely.

"But-"

"_Behave"_

And Sherlock, observing the shorter man, cheeks flushed, a happy gleam in his eyes, a dependence and almost pain in the way he was clutching onto him knew what he must say, what he had wanted to say all along

"I love you John Watson"

* * *

><p>Unnoticed by John or Sherlock due to their preoccupation, a man stood outside the glass door of the hospital room staring at the two men. His heart blazed in a fury <em>he's mine… all mine<em>. This was entirely unacceptable.

A nurse walked past where he was standing and, intimidated informed the man that he needed to move- he was blocking the corridor. In reply the man gave her a cold stare and in a deadly soft voice asked menacingly,

"Do you know who I am?"

The nurse backed away slowly and he followed her slowly,

"Tell me. Do you know who I am?" and in this last sentence his voice rose so That it echoed down the corridor.

"no-no sir", squeaked the nurse

He smiled sweetly.

"I am Moriarty."


End file.
